Belong
by No Time To Cry
Summary: It's hard when no one else thinks he belongs. When no one else thinks he should be there, doing that, living the high life with the rest of them. And, after years and years of hardship, Murderface doesn't think he can take it for much longer.


A/N: The first chapter for yet another challenge given to me by MidnightNimh. It will be seven chapters long. Each chapter will, hopefully, get a little bit longer and a little more in-depth. Each chapter is also based around a completely different song, some of which are going to be really hard to work into a proper plot. But, hopefully, I'll be able to pull it off!

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><p>"You ams be doinks it wrong, Moiderface." Skwisgaar said, crossing his arms over his chest and giving the sheet of glass in front of him an impetulant scowl. On the other side of the glass, Murderface scowled right back.<p>

The leag guitarist had forced him to re-record his part in their new song, Blood Tears, three times. Because a note was off or his bass wasn't tuned right or, like this time, Murderface strayed from the pre-written musical script and went off into his own playing. And, like every recording session, Murderface had about had it.

"You ams supposked to be playinks it like this." Holding his hands up, Skwisgaar briefly pantomimed the chords that the bassist was supposed to be hitting.

His only response was a hard glare.

Skwisgaar frowned and jammed his finger down onto the small red button that operated the sound-box. It went from on, to off, to on again. "Ams this brokens? Or ams yous just beinks a dildos? Because you ams not have listens to anysthinks that I ams been sayinks."

Murderface pulled his top, chapped lip back slightly and bared his crooked teeth in a snarl. "That'sch becausche everything you've schaid isch schtupid."

"Stupids?" Skwisgaar raised one thin, blond eyebrow. "You ams the stupids one, Moiderface. Not even ables to plays the bass right when I gives you your musics-sheets to plays."

For a moment, Murderface saw nothing but red. His blood boiled and anger coursed through him, enveloping him whole and devouring all sense of reason. Because that was exactly what the problem was. That it was Skwisgaar, who was young and inexpierence and had never even held a bass before let alone played one, that was writing his parts for the song. For every song and every rift, every single chord that Murderface strummed, he had to refer to Skwisgaar.

And, in that moment, he was sick of it. Except, sick wasn't really the right word for what he felt. Niether was 'tired' or 'fed up'. Even 'hatred' didn't do that feeling, the one swirling around in his gut right then, justice anymore. Nothing he could think of did - except that Murderface had felt this before, when his grandmother kicked him out of the house at such a young age and, again, that dreaded day in Brookelyn.

It was the same feeling that had coursed through him the day that he was dubbed _Mad William Murderface_. When his real last name became null and void, forgotten and ignored, just like his original prowess at bass was right now.

Clenching his teeth together, Murderface ripped the bass from around his neck and pitched it at the plexi-glass screen as hard as he could. It hit it with a resounding twang and a bang as the instrument splintered in half, strings snapping and wood breaking. The glass wall wobbled under the force of the blow but stayed up. Skwisgaar, on the other hand, let out an in-articulate yelp and jerked backwards, toppling right out of the seat he'd been relaxing in.

The rest of Dethklok had looked up from their snacks to stare.

"Fuck you!" Murderface snarled, chartreus eyes narrowed and swirling with an unfathomable amount of hate - and, if one cared to look past the rage and hate, they would have seen hurt and an almost lost look. "Fuck all of you guysch!"

And there was more that he wanted to say. More that Murderface wanted to tell them all.

Like how big a group of idiots he thought they all were for believing that he was actually that bad at playing bass.

Like how much he wanted to grab Nathan and shake him, demand that he remember the days when it was just the two of them.

Like how he hated the way they talked to him, treated him, looked at him. As though he was less.

And maybe, a part of him said quietly, maybe he was less. But that part was brushed aside in a hurry, barely payed any heed, as Murderface gnashed his teeth together and gave the entire band the finger.

Murderface could see the entricate spider-web of scars that laced the appendage. The rest of Dethklok either couldn't or chose to ignore it.

"Fuck all of you baschtardsh." Murderface snarled again, because he didn't think he could get himself to say anything else.

Instead, he turned on his heel and stormed over to the door that led out of the sound-booth and into the recording studio. Flung it open. Enjoyed the way Nathan flinched away from his anger-filled gaze - and maybe he felt the sting of abandonment too when not a single one of them spoke up in his defence. Or even just spoke up at all. But they all just stared at him.

So Murderface pulled his lip back again and snarled at them. Then he turned and he left.

Ignoring the half-worried look on Nathan's face. Ignoring the way that Toki's bottom lip had started to tremble, fear drifting into his eyes. Ignoring the way Pickles' light green eyes lost their sheen as they followed him out the door. And payed no mind what so ever to the confused expression that took over the Swede's face.


End file.
